Her mouth opened but the words seemed to stall.
‘What?’ he prompted gently.
‘I want a proper Christmas,’ she breathed. ‘One with real snow, and a log fire, and a huge Christmas turkey that’s almost too big to get in the oven.’ She took a deep breath. ‘I want to be able to smell a real Christmas tree again and I want to spend all day—or all night—decorating it the way I used to with my gran. I want to go into the kitchen and bake Christmas muffins and let the smell drift all around.’ She squeezed her eyes closed for a second. ‘And I don’t want to be alone.’
Finlay was dumbstruck. She hadn’t mentioned gifts or ‘things’. Grace didn’t want perfume or jewels. She hadn’t any yearning for materialistic items.
She wanted time. She wanted company. She wanted the Christmas experience.
He glanced out of the window again. He was a little confused. Snow dusted the top of every rooftop in London—just as it had for the last week.
‘What do you mean by snow?’ he said carefully.
She opened her eyes again as he released his hands from her shoulders. She held out her hands. ‘You know—real snow. Snow that’s so thick you can hardly walk in it. Snow you can lie down on and do snow angels without feeling the pavement beneath your shoulder blades. Snow that there’s actually enough of to build a snowman and make snowballs with. Snow that, when you look out, all you can see is white with little bumps and you wonder what they actually are.’ He could hear the wonder in her voice, the excitement. She’d stopped being so sad and was actually imagining what she wished Christmas could be like.
‘And then you go inside the house and all you can smell is the Christmas tree, and the muffins, and then listen to the crackle of the real fire as you try and dry off from being outside.’ She was smiling now. It seemed that Grace Ellis could tell him exactly what she wanted from this Christmas.
And he knew exactly where she could get it. The snow scene in her head—he’d seen that view a hundred times. The crackling fire—he had that too.
This was Grace. The person who’d shot a little fire into his blood in the last few days. The person who’d made him laugh and smile at times. The girl with the warm heart who had let him realise the future might not be quite as bleak as he’d once imagined.
He could do this. He could give her the Christmas she deserved.
‘Pack your bag.’
Her eyes widened and she frowned. ‘What?’
He started walking through the penthouse, heading to his cupboards to pull out some clothes. It was cold up north; he’d need to wrap up.
‘I’ll take you home to grab some things. I can show you real snow. I can light a real fire. We can even get soaked to the skin making snow angels.’ He winked at her. ‘Once you’ve done it—you’ll regret it.’
Grace was still frowning. ‘Finlay, it’s after eight o’clock on Christmas Eve. Where on earth are you planning on taking me? Don’t you have plans yourself?’
He shook his head as he pushed some clothes in a black bag. ‘No. I planned on staying here and going up on Boxing Day to visit my parents and sister. My helicopter is on standby. We can go now.’
She started shaking her head. ‘Go where?’
‘To Scotland.’
CHAPTER SEVEN
THINGS SEEMED TO happen in a blur after that.
Her cart abandoned, Finlay grabbed her hand and made a quick phone call as they rode down in the elevator. The kitchen was still busy and it only took two minutes for him to corner the head chef.
‘I need a hamper.’
The head chef, Alec, was in the middle of creating something spectacular. He shot Finlay a sharp look, clearly annoyed at being interrupted.
‘What?’
But enthusiasm had gripped Finlay. ‘I need a hamper for Christmas. Enough food for dinner tomorrow and all the trimmings.’ He started opening the huge fridges next to Alec. ‘What have you got that we can take?’
Grace felt herself shrink back. Alec was clearly contemplating telling Finlay where to go. But after a few seconds he gestured to a young man in the corner. ‘Ridley, get one of the hampers from the stock room. See what we’ve got to put in it. Get a cool box too.’
Finlay had started stockpiling everything he clearly liked the look of on one of the counters where service was ongoing. The staff were dodging around them as they tried to carry on. She moved next to his elbow. ‘I think we’re getting in the way,’ she whispered.
Prosciutto ham, pâté, Stilton and Cheddar cheese, oatcakes, grapes and some specially wrapped chocolates were already on the counter. Finlay looked up. ‘Are we?’ He seemed genuinely surprised about the chaos they were causing. ‘What kind of wine would you like?’ he asked. ‘Or would you prefer champagne?’